


It's a Win or Lose on a Rolling Die

by goingmywaydoll



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baby Fic, F/M, cries that it's an au, yep i made an anne tag sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2554217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingmywaydoll/pseuds/goingmywaydoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What do you say/Is this the time/For one more try/At a happy life/So what do you say/Is it unwise/To think my fears/Will not reprise" -Lucius</p>
<p>or</p>
<p>The one where they get what they want, after all this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Win or Lose on a Rolling Die

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically snapshots of anne's life and her growing up. i wrote it a while ago, so some of the accuracy with now canon events is off but oh well. thanks to the writers network on tumblr for being all around great and helping me out with this one! love you lots.

**Act the First**

"Well it took you long enough," she says, biting back the beam that is growing on her face. She knows that settling skirmishes away from the castle is necessary but it doesn't make their separation any easier. But nothing compares to the feeling of his arms around hers after weeks of absence, breathing in his scent and 

"I was a bit busy," he says, grinning. She erupts in laughter and closes the space between them, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly. Kissing someone with armor on is an awkward affair, Mary finds, but they manage for a good minute. They break apart when Kenna comes rushing past them, straight into Bash’s arms. Bash picks her up and swings her around as Mary and Francis watch, laughing.

"No matter how happy she is to see him, it’s not as happy as I am to see you," Mary says, bringing Francis’ attention back to her.

"Competitive now, are we?" he asks. 

"We may place…bets every now and then," she says enigmatically.

"Bets? On what?"

"Nothing important. Things like who will win your sparring matches. We count, you know. You’re winning, by the way, and she owes me," she replies. Francis shakes his head, laughing. 

"You two are ridiculous."

Mary opens her mouth to say something, but Kenna interrupts her as she and Bash pause on their way back into the castle.

"Oh, Francis, congratulations! We’re all so happy for you two," she says, putting her hand on his arm. Mary freezes and begins frantically shaking her head at Kenna, who doesn’t notice.

"I—What?" Francis asks, utterly confused.

"The baby, of course!" Kenna says, as if it’s obvious. Francis’ jaw drops and he slowly turns towards Mary. Kenna looks between them and realization dawns on her. "Ah. My mistake. I’ll just be…going."

“Kenna!" Mary says as her friend walks away, trying not to laugh.

"I—the baby—what is—is there—are you?" Francis splutters.

"Surprise!" she says weakly. "I’m pregnant."

"You’re pregnant," he states. She nods. "Oh my God, you’re pregnant!"

He bursts into laughter and picks her up, spinning her around. Mary joins in his laughter happily. 

"Wait," he says, setting her down quickly. "Did I hurt you? Are you all right?"

"I’m fine," she says. "I’m not a doll!"

"But we have to think of a name! And get a room for a nursery and you’ll need new clothes, of course. Do we want the baby to sleep with us, or in their own rooms. We’ll have to get a governess. Shall we teach them Latin? Yes, of course, they’ll rule half of Europe. And—"

"Francis," Mary says, putting a hand on his chest. "Francis, slow down. I haven’t even started showing."

"But we need to be prepared," he protests.

"We will be. Let’s just wait until I am more than a month along," she says and Francis nods. Mary looks appeased as he takes her arm and they walk back into the castle together.

"It’s just that, do you think we think we should teach her English or French first?"

* * *

**Act the Second**

Let me in," he demands. The second Bash opened his mouth that Mary was having their child during his meeting, he dropped everything and ran to their rooms. And now the girl before him is telling him that isn't proper for him to be in the room.

"We have orders to not let anyone inside Queen Mary’s rooms," the maid says softly, avoiding her king's eyes.

“Let me in,” he repeats, stepping closer.

"Your grace, I’m afraid we have instructions," the girl says, shaking slightly. She opens her mouth to say something more, but is interrupted by a loud scream from within. The blood drains from Francis’ face.

"I am the future king of France and my wife is in there going through unimaginable pain and you tell me you have orders?” he says. The girl avoids his gaze. “Now. Let. Me. In.”

The guard and the maid exchange looks before stepping aside. Francis lunges forward, bursting through the door just as Mary lets out another scream. He freezes in the middle of the room, staring at the bed. Mary is perched upon it, numerous pillows holding her up as one midwife holds her hand and another stands at her legs. Her hair is plastered to her face, a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

"You are doing absolutely brilliant, your grace," one says encouragingly. Mary squeezes her eyes tight as she screams yet again. When she opens them, her gaze lands on Francis. 

“Francis?" Even across the room, he can hear her disbelief and he comes to his senses, striding towards the bed.

"Your grace, you should be—" one of the midwives starts.

"By my wife’s side," he finishes pointedly. The midwife pauses, like she's about to protest, but sees the look in Francis's eyes and steps away, allowing him to take her place. Mary’s hand slips into his and he brushes a lock of hair out of her face.

"You are so beautiful, Mary, and you are so strong. So, so strong," he says, looking down at her.

Mary opens her mouth to respond but instead whimpers quietly, squeezing his hand harder than she ever has.

"Just one more push, your grace," the midwife says. Mary shoots up from the bed, leaning forward and screaming bloody murder.

"I am going to kill you for this!” she says once she is done yelling. 

"I—" He looks around, confused.

"You idiot! This is because of you, you know!” she snaps, her face contorting in pain. 

“Me?”

"Oh, don’t you dare argue with me while I’m giving birth to your child,” she says. “You just had get me pregnant, didn’t you?”

"It’s alright, I’m here now. You are doing do well, love," he says, deciding on being supportive rather than fueling her anger. However, his soft words do nothing for Mary as she shrieks in pain yet again. 

"You are so close, your grace," a midwife says and Mary shuts her eyes again in pain before wailing once more. Francis presses his lips to her forehead, hating to see her in such pain. Mary barely reacts, panting hard as he strokes her hand with his thumb. She leans forward again, eyes tightly shut and mouth wide open in a scream. Other cries soon fill the air as Mary collapses on the bed, exhausted. The midwife is wrapping a white blanket into a bundle, rocking it back and forth. Francis releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding as the midwife approaches the couple. She looks to Francis worriedly, trying to gage his reaction.

"It’s a girl," she says warily. A smile flickers across his face as he gazes down at the writhing baby before him. 

"A girl," he breathes. 

"Let me see her," Mary says quietly from the bed. The midwife helps Mary to sit up and rests the bundle in her arms. Mary’s lips twitch upwards as she settles into a comfortable position. Francis sits on the edge of the bed, looking admiringly at his wife and daughter. She’s stopped crying now that she’s settled into her mother’s arms and her eyes are searching the world before her.

"She has your eyes," Mary says breathlessly, not moving her gaze from her.

"I think she looks exactly like you," he says, taking in her dark hair. "Absolutely beautiful."

"She needs a name," she says, finally looking up at him. He moves his eyes from his daughter to his wife, smiling softly.

"Anne," he says, returning to look at his daughter. 

"Anne," Mary says, testing the name on her tongue. She smiles and sighs tiredly, "It’s perfect."

"You should rest," he says, noting her drooping eyelids. 

"I’m fine," she protests. "I want to hold her a little longer."

"Mary," he says sternly. It doesn’t take much for her to comply but when she nods reluctantly, he realizes he’s going to have to hold the baby. 

"She won’t break,” Mary says, noticing his widened eyes. 

"That’s what you think," he mutters.

"Francis," she says in the same tone he just used with her. She sits up slightly, putting her arms out for him. He stretches out his arms, taking their daughter in. She’s lighter than he thought, barely even a weight. She shifts slightly in his arms and he worries she’s going to wake. Once she finds a comfortable position, Francis gets accustomed to the feel of her in his arms. He bobs her up and down slightly, remembering his mother doing the same with his brothers. When he finally tears his eyes away from Anne, he looks over to Mary, already deeply asleep, curled under the covers. His lips twitch in a smile.

"That’s your mother over there, you know," he whispers to Anne. "And she loves you very very much. We both do. She’s done a lot to get you here, more than I wish she bore on her own. I’m so sorry I’m late, hopefully you can forgive me for that. I love you very very much, you know. You are the most important thing in our world."

“Francis,” Mary whispers. 

"You should be asleep," he says, looking up. Apparently, she wasn't as deep in sleep as he thought.

"It’s been so long," she says, her eyes barely staying open. "Come sleep beside me."

He nods and looks to the midwife. She comes over, taking Anne finally from his arms. He feels the absence of his daughter too quickly and wishes he didn’t have to give her up. But he can feel the fatigue settling in and he longs to feel Mary’s body folded against his. The midwife sets Anne in the bassinet beside the bed, making sure she is lying just right. She bows to Francis and exits, leaving the little family their privacy. He peels off his doublet and kicks off his boots quietly. Mary has fallen asleep again but she instinctively curls into his body when he crawls into their bed. He wraps his arms around her and her head rests perfectly against his shoulder. She sighs softly in her sleep and Francis kisses her head lightly, savoring the feeling of being home.

* * *

**Act the Third**

"Who is dancing with Anne?" asks Francis as Mary walks up to him. He doesn’t take his eyes away from his daughter, who is laughing with a boy he doesn’t recognize. Mary studies him carefully, noting his clenched jaw. 

"The son of the Marquis de Rouen," Mary says, biting back a smile. "And he’s perfectly nice."

"Is he?" Francis asks, his voice wavering slightly. "Can we be sure?"

"Francis, don't be ridiculous," she scoffs, but puts a hand on his arm. His eyes stay resolutely trained on their daughter. "He’s perfectly polite."

"But can we trust him?"

"He’s a thirteen year old boy!" 

"He’s dancing with my daughter!" he shoots back. Mary rolls her eyes and returns her gaze to their daughter. 

"Does he know who she is?" Francis asks quickly after a pause, turning to his wife.

"I’m sure she does," replies Mary amusedly.

"Maybe if he was more aware of…"

"Who her father is?" finishes Mary. "And what this father would do if he found that he was flirting with his daughter?"

"That’s not what I was going to say."

"It’s what you meant."

"I don’t like the way he’s touching her."

"You don’t like a lot of things about him."

"He is dancing with my daughter, of course I don’t like a lot of things about him," he says. 

"Come, let’s dance. Forget about Matthieu—"

"Oh, so his name is Matthieu!" he interrupts. 

"Francis, forget about him and Anne. Your daughter is fourteen and not a child. At least give her freedom before she’s married off for alliances."

"Married? Not on my watch," Francis mutters.

“We were married for an alliance,” she points out. Francis looks down at her and raises an eyebrow.

"Exactly."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" she says, pivoting to look at him completely. Francis raises his eyebrow again.

"I don’t want him touching him the way I touch you," he says simply as looks down at her with a gaze that makes her shiver. Mary purses her lips, trying not to laugh as she turns away from her husband and blushes.

"Well, if you keep talking about our daughter and some boy who shows an interest in her, I’m not letting you do any of that tonight," she says. Francis swallows hard and offers his hand to her. Mary smiles pleasantly and takes it as he leads her to dance. 

* * *

**Act the Fourth**

Mary doesn’t leave their room for two days.

They take away his body almost immediately. Only Catherine can tear her daughter-in-law’s hands away from his limp body. But she stays. She sits by their bed for a whole day, her only motion the rise and fall of her chest. On the dawn of the second day, her tears come once more. The whole castle can hear her screams and she pushes everyone but the queen mother away. Catherine only sits beside her, letting Mary clutch her hand and scream and scream.

The tears don’t stop coming, the servants whisper. They say she just keeps crying like she won’t ever stop, like she’ll never run out. They say she’s worn the same clothes for two days, they say she hasn’t even left the chair. They say she has this look in her eyes, like she’ll never go back to the way she used to be. They say she’ll never laugh again.

When the sun goes down on the second day, she closes her eyes. Catherine summons two servants to place her in the bed, to pull the covers over her and leave her in peace. It’s said that the queen mother kisses her forehead and wipes the tears and leaves her to her dreams.

In her dreams, he is alive. In her dreams, he is throwing Anne in the air like he did when she first walked. In her dreams, she is watching him rocking her back and forth to quiet her wails. In her dreams, he is putting his hands over her swelled stomach, talking to their unborn child. In her dreams, he is planning their child’s nursery. In her dreams, she is walking down the aisle towards him. In her dreams, she is promising to save him. In her dreams, they are seven and racing through the woods and she is falling in the creek and he is lifting her up and she is crying and he is using his jacket to slow the blood on her knee and their governess is yelling but he doesn’t look like he regrets any of it.

When she wakes, a servant is stoking the fire, but she doesn’t feel the warmth. The servant—she doesn’t even register who it is—stands, nearly walking out of the room without noticing her queen sitting up in bed.

“Your Grace!” she says, halting in her steps towards the door. Mary doesn’t say anything, she feels as though her mouth is made of sandpaper. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Mary stares at her for a second before shaking her head. The servant nods, curtsies and leaves Mary to try and fail to fall back asleep.

The next person to enter her chambers is Catherine.

“I’m bringing your daughter,” she says without missing a beat. Mary opens her mouth to protest. “No, she is mourning her father and she is all alone. You must be there for her in a time like this, no matter how lost you feel.”

“Catherine, she can’t see me like this,” Mary says, her voice hoarse.

“It’s better than not seeing you at all,” Catherine says. “The servants are talking. She hears the stories. Don’t leave her alone in the world without her father and her mother. That isn’t what Francis would want.”

Mary opens her mouth to reply, but her face crumples at the mention of Francis. Her eyes well up quickly, tears spilling over and rolling down her cheeks thick and fast.

“Oh, my dear,” Catherine says, approaching the bed and enveloping Mary in her arms.

“He can’t be gone, he can’t be,” Mary is saying through her sobs. “He said he would come back, he promised he would come back.”

“I know, I know,” Catherine whispers, rubbing her back soothingly. “But he would want you to be strong right now, Mary. Don’t let him be your weakness.”

“He promised. I promised I would save him, I swore, it’s not fair, it’s not fair,” Mary chokes out. “Take me back, I don’t want this, take it back, give him back to me.”

She isn’t sure how long Catherine holds her there as she cries but when she finally quiets, it’s no longer early morning.

“Send Anne in,” she says quietly when Catherine pulls away.

“Are you sure?”

“I have to be,” she says, nodding. Catherine nods as well and brushes Mary’s hair out of her face.

“I’ll be back soon with her.”

“I want to be alone with her,” she says as Catherine walks away. Her mother-in-law doesn’t say anything, only nodding and understanding.

When she returns, Anne is with her. Her long brown hair tumbles loose down her back and she dressed in her rumpled dress from yesterday. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but not full of tears yet. She walks to her mother’s bed, her back straight and her mouth set in a firm line. Neither mother nor daughter speak and Anne just falls into Mary’s arms like she did when she was young.

Her daughter’s sobs are what shatter Mary, the pure innocent grief in them. She only pulls her in closer, letting her cry on her shoulder. Mary holds back her own sobs and only lets the silent tears fall, determined to be strong for her daughter.

When Anne pulls away, the puffy eyes brimming with tears take Mary back to a time where she could barely walk and would stumble and fall. She isn’t her sixteen year old daughter anymore, she was five and sprawled on the ground, a gash on her knee and tears streaming down her face. And Francis is there in seconds, picking her up and wiping her tears and he is pressing his shirt over the cut to stop the blood and Mary is calling a servant and they are young and their worst fear is their daughter getting hurt.

But this time, it is only Mary to dry the tears, to stop the hurt.

* * *

 

**Act the Fifth**

“You must be sad to give up your crown,” Catherine says as she comes to stand beside Mary. They’re standing in the hallway, waiting for Anne to come out of her chambers and escort her to the throne room.

Mary ponders this for a moment.

“No,” she says. “It’s time, I am too old to be running two countries.”

“You?” Catherine says, laughing lightly. “If you are old, then what am I?”

The two queens had formed a reluctant alliance years ago, one that has formed into a more trusting relationship, though they clash often. Catherine is older now and Mary knows how to handle her better than she did before. They were irreparably bonded together after Francis’s death and that bond has never broken.

Mary opens her mouth to reply, but the doors to her daughter’s rooms are opening and out she comes.

She is tall, just like her father, with her dark hair up in a complicated braid. Her blue eyes are sparkling and they are so clearly Francis’s that Mary feels her heart stutter each time she looks at her. She’s older than her father was when he was crowned but Mary still sees her as the little girl that begged for a pony for years.

“Ready?” Mary asks, smiling. Anne nods confidently. She is not a teenager as they were. She has been prepared for this for all her life. She is not unsure, or worried about the responsibility. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you, Mother,” she says, blushing slightly.

“Your father would be so proud of you,” Mary says, trying not to tear up.

“I know,” she says. “He would be proud of you as well.”

Mary smiles at her daughter and tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

“Your Grace? It’s time,” a page says behind them and Anne straightens, squaring her shoulders. She doesn’t nod to the page, only beginning to walk down the corridor. Two other aids trail behind her, carrying her long cloak as she practically floats towards the hall.

Anne may have her mother’s dark hair and a flowing dress, but Mary can see so much of her father in their daughter that day. She can see the way her eyes are set resolutely forward, the way nothing but her legs are moving. They make it down the hall quickly and it feels as though they are standing before the wooden double doors before Mary can blink an eye.

Mary purses her lips, her eyes crinkling.

“What?” Anne turns to her mother.

“Nothing,” Mary says softly, turning away.

“Mother.”

“You just,” Mary starts, pausing to think. “Your father did the same thing on his coronation.”

“Did what?”

“He hurried to the door. He didn’t show any emotion. He was…determined. He wanted to look old enough, good enough, strong enough. But then, when he got to the door, he stopped. And he looked at me. And I nodded. And his eyes did that thing where they sparkle even though the sun isn’t hitting them.”

Anne’s gaze flicks down, and Mary is relieved that she remembers.

“Everyone says you look like me,” Mary says, “But I see more of him in you every day.”

Mary can see her daughter swallow hard before she turns to the two guards stationed in front of her.

“Open the doors.”


End file.
